DANTE! they would call thee stern,

Unsympathetic they,

And to a lighter muse they turn

From thy sweet song away, -

Ah, could they thy soft spirit learn


As I have learned to-day.

Alas! how piteously doth tell

Thy sorrow-throbbing lay,

Where through the murky fumes of hell

The soul-ghosts never stay,

But whirl in time to the spectral knell

That tolls all hope away.

However, mid that dead, damned host,

A snowy pair there flew,

By darker thousands onward forced,